The world's dullest post. Ever. I'm not kidding.

Thank God / Allah / Oprah that this is a short week. Seriously.

Already, bidness has gone down at Corporate Behemoth. I scratched the crap out of my cornea whilst removing a contact that was evidently trimmed in glass shards. No magical gnomes have arrived to vacuum the dog hair that covers every surface of my home. And then there was the tiny bidness of Creepy Stalker Guy having the nerve to attend my church.

And I'm preparing for a holiday weekend that features no large bodies of water. The up side? No bikini line maintenance. The down side? No water. No swimming. No boating. No Foxie Doxie in a life vest ... which we left at the lake home of The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful's parents, anyway.

So, here's to a three-day weekend that's preventing me from disappearing and telling everyone that I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail. Because, really? Who would believe that?

All things Hazel.

Andi at A Thousand Miles From The Place I Was Born recently posted this clip, and I just have to steal it. Everyone in the entire universe should see it and witness the magic that is 88-year-old Hazel.

Seriously. Watch this.



I totally want to be like Hazel when I grow up.

I had a great-aunt Hazel. My sweet grandma was her sister, and they married brothers. That was fun, because all the same people came to family reunions, no matter which side of the family it was.

I also remember being very impressed that Aunt Hazel ate corn on the cob by cutting the corn off the cob and then eating it with a fork. I guess her teeth couldn't handle it, but I thought it was just very ladylike.

Aunt Hazel and Uncle Bart were married for approximately 752 years. I'm not even kidding. And they died a few days apart and had a joint funeral. They had been holding on for each other, and there was no reason for one to hang around without the other. That is love, partnership and dedication.*

So, yeah, I want to be like Aunt Hazel when I grow up, too.

*Don't get me wrong - their fights were legendary. But it all comes out in the wash.

Slouching toward salvation.

The last three mornings, I've woken up freakishly earlier for no apparent reason. Yesterday and today, I took advantage of the weekend and promptly went back to sleep. It felt decadent, but it also left me feeling sort of out of it and slow.

But this morning I didn't let myself be a total slob. I cleaned myself up and made it to church ... for the first time since Easter. Yeah, I know.

During the first hymn, I noticed a woman four rows ahead of me. She was wearing a patterned linen dress - the kind that uptight women buy for full price at department stores and see as examples of their creative sense of style.

Obviously, I totally had God in my heart this morning.

I imagined she was wearing sensible shoes. And then I imagined that the man sitting next to her looked a lot like Creepy Stalker Guy. Except ... that it was Creepy Stalker Guy!

He had mentioned to me that he and his sister were shopping for churches and had really liked my church. In a city of a gazillion churches, they were sitting four rows ahead of me.

When the hymn was over, I scooted over a seat so that I was directly behind him and obscured by a very pregnant woman. And then, I proceeded to freak out.

On Friday, Creepy Stalker Guy had both texted me the message "Hi" and sent me an e-mail through match.com that said, "So, have you met a great guy yet?" The one-two punch made my skin crawl. It had been about 10 days since he'd last texted me, so I was hoping he was gone. Alas, no such luck.

I considered walking out of the church. I was sitting in the back, so it could be done with no disruption. But then I just got mad. Dammit, I actually got my ass out of bed and dressed and to church on time for once. I was going to stay. What's the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen is that he would approach me after the service and I'd call him out in front of his sister. I would say, "You need to stop contacting me. You have shown a total lack of respect for me and my wishes. We aren't friends, because friends don't act like that. You offered to pay me to go out with you. That's sick."

And then I would look his sister in the eye and say, "This is a problem." And then I would walk away.

I worried all service. And then I realized that I was sitting next to a handsome older man who was sitting alone, and worst case, I could take his hand and pretend we were a couple. A couple who came to church together after spending Saturday night together. A couple, as in two, as in no room for Creepy Stalker Guy!

So, I had a plan for this service. But what about next time I come to church (which, at the rate I'm going, will be Advent)? Am I going to cower?

Hell to the no. I have a plan. And that plan is applicable anytime.

The final song of the service was Corner of the Sky, from Pippin. It's an amazing song, and seemed strangely fitting:

Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I have to be where my spirit can run free
Gotta find my corner of the sky

And so, when the service was done?

I ran free! I high-tailed it outta there and didn't look back. I walked down the street and did some shopping. I bought some great clothes for work and bargained that man right outta my hair.

Maintenance.

No, I'm not talking about repainting my garage or my recent realization that those Old Navy undies I love and bought like 17 of are actually biodegradable and fall apart after, like, two washings.

No. I'm talking site maintenance.

I've been meaning to update my blogroll since, like, the time of the dinosaurs. And today? The day when a) I woke up at 5:45 for no good reason and yet managed to get to work only at my typical 9:00 time; b) I worked my tail off despite the fact that there's a new pool / swingers' club right next to Corporate Behemoth that blares music all afternoon; and c) I am preparing to sneak my flask into the movies with my friend Amelia?

Well, today is the day.

I've made a meager attempt at updating my list of stuff I actually read, but I'm not always the hostess with the mostest. So, if you'd like to have your blog listed, please leave me a comment. And I'm always on the lookout for fun new reads, so don't be shy!

Have a great weekend, and for those of you in the Midwest? Try not to die of heat stroke, m'kay?

Turning men off dating since 2009.

Last night, I finally told Mr. Interwebnets that I didn't think it was happening for us. This has been cooking for several weeks and was solidified when he e-mailed me a weight-loss meal plan ... the day after taking me out for ice cream. Really, though? I was just waiting for a sign. And even a friendly suggestion about reducing my caloric intake was enough.

Truth be told, he freaks me out just a bit.

I had been dreading this conversation. We were on the phone. I told him that I didn't think we were going anywhere. He was upset and, surprisingly to me, totally surprised.

Now, he wasn't hateful. But he was a bit ... belligerent. Some favorites:

• Help me out here. Tell me why.


• You're totally missing the boat here. You just don't have this connection with someone every day.


• Wow. I think you're totally misguided.

And, of course, my two favorites:

• Well, I can tell you one thing: I'm never doing online dating again. This whole experience has totally turned me off from meeting people that way. You think you know someone ...

Which was followed up with this heart-warming bit:

• I'll pray for you.

Jeeeeeezus. Just because I don't want to date you doesn't mean that I'm a heathen or destined for eternal damnation.

My mom's take on the prayer business? "Good. Tell him you're praying he'll get a clue and leave you alone."

My dad's take on the whole deal? "You're a fabulous babe, and hot babes have to deal with this sort of thing. You did what you had to do."

Which had me singing "My Way" a la Sinatra all day. Regrets? I have a few. But then again? Too few to mention.

Foreshadowing, anyone?

The lovely you gotta wonder commented on last night's rumination on dating with these insightful words:

My last 2 posts highlight my husband's removing live critters (snake and bird) that Al the killer cat brought into the house. Just giving you the perspective. When I think "why do I put up with his BS?" I will remember the snake and the bird. And the other critters (alive or dead) that he gets to deal with.

Obviously, she's got a point. Unfortunately, I was reminded yet again last night how vitally important critter removal is.

Last night, I let Foxie Doxie and Lil' Frankfurter outside for their right-before-bed constitutional.

Actually, Lil' Frank refused to go out. So I picked him up and cuddled him and prepared to ceremoniously dump this disobedient ass on the deck - when I heard what can best be described as a clatter.

It was Foxie. Barking his head off in the pitch-black. And then? Then, there was hissing.

It was a possum. A humongous possum that was really pissed off that his evening constitutional was interrupted by a loud, indignant and uncouth dachshund.

I dropped Lil' Frank, who scampered back into the house. Then, I proceeded to try to convince Foxie to leave the varmint and come inside.

I wasn't terribly successful. Or, really, successful at all.

Foxie ended up underneath the deck, barking incessantly at the cornered possum, who hissed like he was going to kick some serious ass. Add the visual of me - in my nightgown, natch - standing on the deck, yelling at Foxie and occasionally jabbing a broom under the deck, trying to make something - anything - happen, and you've got a whole lot of whiskey tango.

This went on for 20 minutes. Finally, I called my friend CB. He fit two important criteria: a) he's a night owl and therefore wouldn't hate me forever for calling at 11:10; and b) he's an Eagle Scout and therefore should automatically know what to do in such situations.

CB assured me that the possum wouldn't hurt anybody, and suggested I attempt to lure Foxie with his favorite food. CB was also kind enough to pretend like I really was facing a horrific test.

I hung up, armed myself with cheese, and attempted to sweet talk Foxie again.

And, again, he ignored me. And then? Then, it started to rain. A lot.

The barking and the hissing continued. Finally, after I looked like a participant in a wet t-shirt contest, I used the broom to pry the crappy fencing off the side of the deck. You know - it's the fencing that's supposed to keep doxies and varmints from getting under the deck in the first place?

Yeah. That fencing is dead to me.

And then I used the broom to poke the possum so he realized that he could move around. He made a run for it. And I was able to grab Foxie and drag his muddy but very satisfied self into the house.

Upon returning to the house, I realized that Lil' Frank had been so upset by the barking and hissing and yelling and improper broom usage that he had run around the house peeing. Not purposely marking - no, that would be too easy to clean up. No, Lil' Frank ran laps around the house, not having control of his nervous bladder.

So, at 11:45, I commenced bathing both dogs and cleaning pretty much every square inch of my floors. Then, I took a hot shower, because I was freezing and soaked to the bone. Plus? I was a teensy bit annoyed.

Ahem.

So, yeah, you gotta wonder. I totally understand where you're coming from.

Just when I was ready to sit on the couch indefinitely.

I'm old news on match.com. No new e-mails or winks - at least not since the guy who mentioned that he'd just bought new art that looked great above his Crate and Barrel sofa.

There's a very haughty (and delusional) part of me that thinks, "I could buy and sell you without a second thought. Don't try to impress me with your Crate and Barrel sofa."

Or, like Phil Hartman's brilliant Sinatra impression, "I've got chunks of guys like you in my stool."

So, there's that. And there's the exhaustion. And the fact that I can barely handle all the flower-giving beaus currently beating down my door.

But I logged in tonight and - funny thing about match.com - instead of extending me for one month? The sort of extended me for three. So, I'm on match until September, whether I like it or not.

Ok, then. It's like a death march of dating.

I should add more pictures to my profile. Or I should at least log in every once in a while so that my profile doesn't get the "active within three weeks" tag of slackerdom.

But just to give you an idea of where I am? I came home from work today, stripped down to my skivvies, and lounged about in bed reading until 7:30. At that point, I got up, put on my nightgown, and retired to the couch, where I've been watching Hallmark movies ever since.

Yeah, my life is pretty great. I'm not sure why I'm looking for a mate.